


as we fall, so we hide

by doodlebutt



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Celebrimbor Has Daddy Issues, Celebrimbor in Gondolin, False Identity, Gen, Gondolin, a bit of a clusterfuck basically, characters pretending to be other characters, started out as crack and then grew a plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:47:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22073497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doodlebutt/pseuds/doodlebutt
Summary: Inspired bya Tumblr postfrom shitty-tolkien-aus, all credit and blame to them.When you start a new life, how long before the old one shows up to haunt you with glitter on its face?
Relationships: Celebrimbor | Telperinquar & Curufin | Curufinwë
Comments: 19
Kudos: 101





	1. nothing like you

Gondolin was quiet. Gondolin was airy and open and mournful, populated by survivors and those left behind. And Gondolin was full of people who had never met Celebrimbor before.

Gil-Galad was a cryptic enough name that it would be considered rude to ask after his parentage. Turgon would surely have suspected -- but Turgon was shrouded in grief at the deaths of both his brother and all of their hopes. He barely left his tower in those solemn months. Still, the risk was there. So Celebrimbor kept to himself and did his best not to draw attention.

His favourite thing about this new life was that he could walk into a room without conversation falling silent, and no-one looked at him unless they wanted to talk to him.

***

The hardest thing about pretending to be his own son was resisting the urge to exploit the cracks in Orodreth's rule, to drive wedges deeper into them and retake the old position of power he had shared with his brother. But even had he done it... Without Celegorm, it would not have been the same.

The second hardest thing was how damn _social_ Celebrimbor had been. Curufin had just assumed that his son would have kept to himself, that it would not be difficult to maintain his social connections as he barely had any -- but to the contrary, he found his skills tested to the limit on a regular basis in the first weeks. Had he been asked, he would not have said it was challenging to bluff and manipulate his way through conversation; really one had only to _listen_ and all the required information would reveal itself in time, and if something more than just luck was required at times to salvage a situation from narrowed eyes and dubious pauses -- well, he had inherited the majority of Fëanáro's power over words and hearts as well. No, he would not have called it difficult -- but each night he dropped into bed exhausted, and morning brought little refreshment.

***

Nargothrond had fallen. Word found its way to Gondolin barely swifter than the refugees themselves, and Celebrimbor felt great unease as he watched the first of them arrive from a high-arched bridge in the upper levels of the city. He searched the crowd for familiar faces, finding only a few who he vaguely recognised -- after all this time, he was sure they would not know him in return. No-one would expect to see him here -- and people, he had found, were very good at seeing what they expected to see.

The morning wore on, and the trickle of arrivals slowed; only a few had made it out, it seemed. Celebrimbor watched now more with sorrow than anxiety; he had had friends there, a whole lifetime ago though it seemed, and though he had not thought to ever see them again the loss now felt all too absolute.

And then he saw the silver accents of his own robes glitter in the sunlight.

_What?_

He blinked, then leaned forward across the parapet, disbelieving the evidence of his own perfect vision. _Who_ was that looking exactly like his own mirror all those years ago, right down to the rings in his ears --

Right down to the grey eyes just a couple of shades darker than his own.

***

Curufin looked up at the towering city before him. 'Daunted' would have been the wrong emotion to describe him; 'tired' would be much closer to the mark. He had not thought his deception would ever bring him _here._ And he would need to be more careful than ever, if rumour held true and his cousin still ruled.

Someone was watching him. His skin prickled strangely, like icy air after a night in the forge -- it felt _familiar._ Something drew his gaze, up the white walls and across the bridges, past darkened windows and bright peaks caught in the sun, to the upper levels of the city. And there, leaning across a delicate parapet as if in uninhibited, impolite curiosity -- someone with unfamiliar clothing and a hairstyle he had never seen before, but the face --

The face of his son. 

***

They managed to avoid each other for a total of twenty-three days and four hours. 

Midwinter was crisp and clear, and the High King's feast was open to all figures of any importance in the city. Unfortunately, this included both Gil-Galad and the newly arrived Celebrimbor (who had avoided his cousin physically, but could not keep the rumours of his existence from reaching him nonetheless). 

Sparkling white crowned the mountains that encircled the city, and glinted off the roofs of the towers high above the grand hall. Inside there was music and laughter and chatter; it was the warmest the city had felt to anyone there for long years now. Everyone was enjoying themselves, feasting and drinking and catching up with friends and kin many had thought long lost to them. Everyone except for two. 

Celebrimbor cursed the seating plan which had put him within sight of his father. He had dressed and styled himself in high Gondolin fashion, complete with looping braids and glittering powders to accentuate his features -- as opposite as he could get to the jewel-laden styles of Nargothrond that his father would be emulating. He made polite conversation with Turgon, ate and drank in moderation, and took no small amount of satisfaction in how obviously he had the easier position -- he was already known here, already settled into his new identity, and regardless of the ease with which Curufin may have pulled silk over everyone's eyes back in Nargothrond, he would need to do it all over again now. When he risked a brief glance at his father, he saw downcast eyes and hair used half as a curtain, and a plate of meat barely picked at -- and such a thrill raced through him then, at their world being so inverted, that his heart stuttered and he felt shock at his own vindictiveness. 

He shook himself, and returned to conversation. Any flush beneath the glitter on his cheeks was surely due to the wine. 

***

 _Interminable. Grating. Cacophonous. Unnerving._ Curufin characterised the afternoon by a list of adjectives circling in his mind like an ever-changing mantra, a thread to anchor to while he made small talk and kept up the familiar pretence. It was almost intuitive by now, but he could not relax -- not with his son talking and laughing without a care in the world just a few seats away (and of course Curufin had discovered by now his new identity, and how it galled him to see his son more successful than he at his own game), and his cousin at the head of the table, always far too perceptive for his own good. He had been officially welcomed already, of course, and his discomfort at being told how much he was looking like 'his father' in these later years -- well, that was to be expected from Celebrimbor for a variety of reasons. But he had no reason to believe that the charade would continue without mishap, and the balance between hiding from attention and staying true to his son's character was a hard one to strike.

***

The stars were cold and bright in the deeply vaulted sky as Celebrimbor took some air on a high balcony tucked away behind the main hall. Several deep breaths, fresh and somehow grounding after the heat of the feast -- but still he felt unreasonably giddy with success, and it took some minutes before he could rein himself in with sense and reason. Nothing was certain yet, and it could all still go wrong; but _oh_ how much more likely it was to go wrong for his father, and _yes_ it was wrong to delight in that, but _no_ he would not (could not) stop. He laughed aloud, leaning out into the night air and gazing up at the stars, and let that same thrill he had felt at table fill him once more. Maybe if he indulged it, it would be easier to calm down afterwards -- 

"Gil-Galad?"

The bottom dropped out of his stomach, and he trembled as he turned from the parapet despite the racing of his heart and the heady smile barely contained behind his lips. That _voice --_

"How do they believe you are me?" He couldn't help it, the words slipped from him before he had time to think or stop them, and the shuttered look on his father's face only delivered another rush to the flutter in his chest and the dizziness under his skin. _Breathe._ Someone had told him that once, when he was scared. He did not think he was scared now, but it felt the same. 

"People see what they expect to see. You and I are obviously clever enough to take advantage of that." 

"I'm nothing like you." It was petty and unnecessary -- but Celebrimbor found he could no more control his tongue than the shake of his hands. 

Curufin gestured to himself. "Evidently you are."

Silence whispered over the balcony for several moments -- and then Celebrimbor laughed. He _giggled_ at the absurdity of it all, and Curufin frowned at him the same way he used to frown at silly mistakes in the forge, and that only made him laugh harder, until tears clung to the roots of his eyelashes and he leaned on the parapet for support. 

Curufin stared at him for a long minute, only a slight twitch of his lips betraying any emotion (though which it could be, Celebrimbor neither knew nor particularly wanted to discover), and then turned and left. 

Celebrimbor slid down to the stone floor, still laughing. 


	2. how we switch places

Celebrimbor mostly stayed away from the forges these days. Initially it had been another way to separate his new identity from the old -- now it was to avoid his father. But he missed it more than he had expected to... and he had other reasons besides.

Not in a thousand years would he admit it, but he was curious. How well did Curufin imitate him? How had his behaviour changed? What was it like to talk to him now -- and why had he done it? 

But he knew it was excessively optimistic of him to think he would actually ask those questions given the chance. No, if the midwinter feast was any guide, he would have no control at all over whatever passed his lips. And if he really thought about it (which of course he refused to)... what he truly wanted was to feel again whatever strange elation had flooded his veins and crept beneath his skin that night.

***

The forges here were quieter than those of Nargothrond -- or perhaps simply more extensive, with sheltered corners where one could for all practical purposes feel alone. Curufin felt almost comfortable there. He had made polite acquaintance with the faces he saw the most often, and found himself occasionally working beside one or other of them; Maeglin was an interesting neighbour to have, and they learned much from each other of their own specialties. 

It was on one of these occasions that Maeglin first mentioned venturing beyond the encircling mountains in search of rarer metals. 

And Curufin had never particularly cared for his cousin's rules. 

***

The hour before dawn was usually the quietest. Curufin did not expect to see anyone else as he slipped back unnoticed from a trip down the hidden tunnels; Maeglin had proven to be inventive and intelligent, and Curufin was enjoying the illicit exploration of the mountain passes. Too long had he spent playing at good behaviour and meeting social expectations -- stepping beyond the boundaries of the city brought relief, and the sharp voice at his side was of the same acerbic nature as his own. 

Almost he could imagine that he was himself again. 

He turned the corner back into the forge -- and stopped.

Dressed in unfamiliar colours still, and with clasps in his hair of strange workmanship -- but looking more like himself than he had at the midwinter feast -- Celebrimbor. His back was turned, and it would not have been difficult to slip past unnoticed; but Curufin lingered to watch. His son was working on something delicate; he could read the familiar concentration in the set of his shoulders, could almost see the soft lines between his brows as he set down one tool and picked up another. It was achingly familiar. 

"I know you're there." 

Curufin did not realise he had taken a step forward until his son spoke. Celebrimbor turned, and the look Curufin received stole the air from his lungs; had his son always been so fiercely confident, so unafraid and independent? 

Lit from behind by the sunset glow of the forge, there was almost something of Fëanor about him. 

"Why are you here?" His own voice sounded strange in his ears. Celebrimbor set down his tools and folded his arms, leaning back against the workbench. 

"This is the last remaining Eldar stronghold this side of the Sea. If I wasn't here I'd be dead." 

"You know that's not what I asked. And your uncles aren't dead."

"So why aren't you with them?" 

"We had... a falling out." _And I missed Nargothrond._

The corners of Celebrimbor's lips twitched as if to hold back laughter, and Curufin frowned in irritation. Still he could not pinpoint why he felt so unsettled -- though in truth the lack of such feeling these days was rare indeed. Silence stretched thin between them; an entirely different type of discomfort than that which had always characterised their interactions before. Curufin felt it keenly, awkwardness and a nebulous feeling of inferiority he had slowly become accustomed to, but somehow now with even more power to it. Something was different -- but of course, everything was different now. 

Was this how his son had always felt?

***

The following weeks saw Celebrimbor more often in the forges, at unusual times without any recognisable pattern -- to ensure his father would not know how to avoid him. Perhaps it was morally reprehensible to seek out what so obviously made Curufin uncomfortable, but oh... Even when Celebrimbor kept to himself and worked on his own projects with barely a glance spared for his surroundings, he found sparks beneath his skin and a renewed fire in his heart. His creations then were beyond any of his old works, but he did not care for them in the same way; material objects no longer carried the weight they once had. He would leave them out on his workbench, and at times come back to them disturbed -- and he knew his father had been snooping. 

Not that it mattered to him what Curufin thought. Not any more. 

***

"What's wrong with you?" 

Maeglin's question was uncompromising as it yanked Curufin from his brooding. It was an evening for work -- but Curufin had been working out the same kink from the same strip of metal for the past three hours.

"What?" 

"You've done nothing but mope for the past four weeks. So what's wrong with you?"

Curufin made no reply.

"I would say lost love, but you don't strike me as the type." Maeglin glanced around the forge, observing the other occupants -- a few regular faces, and one that was only recently a regular. He lowered his voice a little. "Nothing's changed here except Gil-Galad -- who has more skill than I expected for someone barely seen in the forges before this month -- so either it's something I have no hope of deducing, or you have a problem with him." 

From then until the end of his life, Curufin had no idea what possessed him to tell a fragment of the truth. 

"I taught him everything he knows. We were familiar in Nargothrond." 

Maeglin hardly paused to take it in, as if such a revelation had been already expected. "And you ended on poor terms, or he would not have been here so many winters before you." 

Curufin only nodded. 

"I understand." Maeglin paused, and when Curufin looked up he had an odd expression -- not sympathy, surely, but something akin. "Tomorrow we shall take another expedition. Be ready at nightfall." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this while ill with the flu and watching LotR. Multitasking, yo...


End file.
